The Arrow - Poem by William Butler Yeats

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I THOUGHT of your beauty, and this arrow,Made out of a wild thought, is in my marrow.There's no man may look upon her, no man,As when newly grown to be a woman,Tall and noble but with face and bosomDelicate in colour as apple blossom.This beauty's kinder, yet for a reasonI could weep that the old is out of season.